


The Devil and Josiah Sanchez

by De Orakle (Delphi)



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Horror, M/M, Religious Content, Supernatural Elements, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-08-01
Updated: 2000-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/De%20Orakle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josiah receives a supernatural visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil and Josiah Sanchez

Only after three nights of dreamless sleep can Josiah bring himself to reflect on what he saw—reflect that perhaps there is truth to the tales that claim the border between the here and hereafter is the realm of dreams.

He has reason to believe. After all, if God can visit his children in their fires of fever and madness, in the quiet of their meditation, in the hours of their death, then why not in that time each night when all is believed without possibility of doubt? And if the Father can possess the most secret spaces of men's minds, then what would stop his fallen firstborn from stopping in on those to whom he'd laid claim?

These past three bright days, warmed by sound sleep and sunlight and the company of his brothers, Josiah has had the luxury of doubt and naive skepticism. Perhaps it was nothing more than fantasy brought on by guilt and shame and secret pleasure. Perhaps.

But on this third day, he has found himself alone with Four Corners' resident gambler; he's the sole, shining recipient of a glinting golden smile, and there's poison on his tongue. The taste of a serpent's kiss lingers on his lips, and suddenly, horribly, Josiah can do nothing but remember and believe...

* * *

He awoke in a church that was and was not his own, and he accepted it with diplomatic acquiescence. In a fashion both vague and perfectly clear, he realized that he was dreaming.

The floor beneath his feet was the same one he swept in the evenings, the roof above his head the same one he'd thatched with shingles and sweat and not a little blood. There were differences though, and they niggled at his mind, reminding him that the chapel in which he now stood was not quite the same one in which he'd lain down his head.

He was on his feet, surveying his surroundings without memory of moving his legs to stand. The windows were dark, casting thick shadows over and under the rows of pews. Their stained glass plates were vivid with images of the Ascension, etched in Christ's own blood-red. The panes had been fixed in the frames of a San Paolo church when Josiah had last seen them, but here he knew them as his own. The Virgin's forgiving eyes gazed simultaneously within and without, to the church and the land—a bride of the desert before she was a bride of God.

Josiah's eyes followed her own toward the pulpit. He blinked very slowly, and found dream-time and memory clashing in a moment of violently fractured vision before the two disavowed all knowledge of the other. For a confusing instant, Josiah's rebelling mind stubbornly showed him the sturdy, simply planed altar he'd built with his own hands. Then, like tired eyes clearing, a new image came clear.

The altar was large and ornate, its intricate carvings almost seeming to move, like snakes burrowing underneath the wood. Centered upon it was a dull golden chalice, a tiny telltale dent of an imperfection marring its gleaming rim: the cup from which his father had taken his last communion with Christ. Between goblet and altar lay a shroud of linen, and Josiah shivered with relief as the pure, unmarred white of the cloth stayed true, clean of blood and wine.

With great effort, he raised his hand and reached toward the altar. The room rushed forward, the linen and oak splintering space to meet his questing fingers. His vision sharpened to pinpoints, blurring to nonsense in the peripheral. His knees buckled.

"Josiah?"

With the soft query, the room snapped back like a rubber band. His back was to the altar before his eyes could adjust to the shock, and he recognized the voice in the instant before his vision cleared. Some silent observer in the back of his mind raised non-existent eyebrows in surprise at this interesting guest appearance.

Seated comfortably in a front row pew was Ezra Standish, arms resting along the back of the bench, legs casually spread. He was regarding Josiah with a mildly expectant expression, the red glow of the windows casting him in a fiery illumination, merging the red and black of his clothing into the shifting shadows, lighting his hair with a coppery cast. Ezra inclined his head, his brows drawing together above his hooded eyes, scrutinizing. Josiah began to get the feeling that he had missed something important.

A rather indulgent smile tugged at the corners of Ezra's mouth. "You were going to take my confession?"

Was he? That didn't quite seem right—but why else would Ezra be in his church? He frowned, staring at Ezra, who gave him a small nod of encouragement.

"Yes, of course, my son," he muttered. The words felt foreign, clumsy on his tongue.

"I am most certainly _not_ your son, Josiah," Ezra replied wryly.

This set Josiah's confusion at ease, set him back on familiar ground. His grin matched Ezra's, only faltering when he swore that the young man spread his legs just that much wider. Suddenly Ezra's smile seemed a touch less congenial and a touch more predatory—but as quickly as the thought came, the light seemed to shift, and Ezra's expression softened.

Josiah passed it off as a trick of the shadows and motioned toward the confessional in invitation. Ezra shook his head and instead patted the pew beside him. In a blink, Josiah found himself sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip beside him. He closed his eyes as Ezra sighed a tiny sigh. The conscious faction of his mind marveled at the detail of this dream. There was another small sound, wet, as Ezra opened his mouth to speak.

"I thank you. Forgive me, brother, for I have sinned. It has been...a lifetime since my last confession."

Ezra's voice was soft and silken, and Josiah relaxed with the familiar rhythm of the words—until Ezra placed a hand quite firmly on his thigh. He shifted, but Ezra wouldn't be displaced, continuing as if oblivious to Josiah's discomfort.

"I _am_ sorry about declining the use of your fine confessional. You see, my father...he used to lock me inside the closet when I was young. When I was being contrary...or selfish."

The words were spoken matter-of-factly, but Josiah could hear the ghost of fear and sorrow in the spaces. On an impulse, he covered Ezra's hand with his own, squeezing it gently and holding on tight. He tried to push back the silhouette of a thought that jostled forward and whispered that something wasn't right—that it wasn't _Ezra_ who had spent long nights in that dark box too cramped for a boy growing so quickly...

"Mr. Sanchez, do you think there are some sins for which there is just no forgiveness?"

Josiah shook his head, to realize that Ezra's now lay against his shoulder. When had that happened? He blinked again in confusion, reminding himself that he was dreaming, but chose his reply carefully nonetheless.

"I think...that if a man finds the right way to show penance, then the Lord will forgive him. But the search for the path to atonement is often as important as the penance itself."

He felt Ezra nod against him, and stiffened as Ezra's hand gently brushed against his own. He tried to feel disturbed that Ezra was cat-rubbing himself against him, almost nuzzling his neck, but all he could feel was Ezra's hot breath raising goosebumps.

He cleared his throat. "Ezra, you've got a confession to make?"

He was amazed that his voice had remained so steady, especially since Ezra's hand had moved to his thigh, rubbing back and forth, higher and higher.

"I do," Ezra whispered, his lips nearly tracing the syllables on Josiah's throat.

Josiah held his breath, trying to remember if this was a dream—whether or not he needed to breathe.

Wet and very _real_, Ezra's tongue traced a hot and cold line up along his jaw. He tried to move but couldn't. He concentrated instead on trying not to shiver as Ezra's mouth traced its maddeningly slow path to whisper in his ear:

"I fear, Mr. Sanchez, that I am utterly irredeemable. I gamble, I lie, I cheat. In my youth, I committed an unspeakable sin—the sort of sin that damns a man. And of late, I have found myself thinking the most...impure thoughts."

Ezra raised his head and drew back to look Josiah in the eye, transfixing him with a boyish look of apprehension, and continued in a quiet voice that rivaled the most angelic choirs Josiah had been privileged to hear.

"Sometimes sin just feels so _good_."

Josiah's eyes widened, his throat closing as Ezra's hand—previously petting his thigh—moved up to his crotch and gently squeezed.

"Josiah, will you forgive me?"

The silence was crisp behind their intermingled breathing. He could feel nothing but the warmth of Ezra's face so close to his and Ezra's hand kneading ever so gently between his thighs.

"What kinds of impure thoughts have been plaguing you, brother?" he whispered, unable to tear his gaze away from Ezra's.

"I've been admiring another man. Admiring his body."

Josiah swallowed hard. "There's no shame in that Ezra, if God created man in his likeness—it's worship."

Ezra closed his eyes tightly. "I...I've done much more than admire his body. I listen to his words and imagine they're whispered into my ears only...I watch him drink and wish I could feel his...mouth. On me. I have watched his hands in honest labor and fantasized about how they'd feel on me...on my body. Big. Strong." The words were spoken like a painting of muted red and black. Ezra's hand stilled in its motion.

Josiah shook his head lightly. He was still dreaming, wasn't he? The windows, the altar, falling asleep on a pew—yes—then it couldn't possibly hurt to ask...

"You care for him?"

Ezra's eyes opened. He stared for a moment, opening and closing his mouth as if he meant to speak and then thought better of it. His eyes searched Josiah's, a little wary, a little lost. With compassion for the latter, Josiah brushed his thumb against the back of Ezra's hand, returning the man's gaze as honestly as he could. Ezra's jaw was set resolutely, his chin stuck out like a boy striking his first pledge.

"I care for this man more than I thought I was capable of." He spoke softly, but with steel beneath that dared anyone to argue.

"Then there's no penance to be sought here," Josiah said, suddenly feeling caged, wild.

Hesitantly, he leaned forward and lifted Ezra's hand from his lap, letting their fingers slip entwine. He felt Ezra's name slip from his tongue as their faces drew nearer to each other, their heads tilting in tiny, uncertain increments. Heat, a tickle, and Josiah's lips were brushing against the corner of Ezra's mouth, the shivering touch causing him to lick his lips reflexively. As he did so, he found Ezra's lips full against him, moving gently around his tongue.

Ezra's hair was soft as summer as Josiah's fingers slipped through to cup the back of his head. Their lips pressed together harder, soft over firm. Their tongues touched, at first in shy butterfly-flutters and then in a pleasantly shuddering, swallowing slide.

Ezra pulled back slightly, exhaling in a soft sigh that shivered over Josiah's wet lips.

"Will you partake in communion with me now?" Ezra whispered.

Disoriented, he found himself suddenly before the altar with Ezra kneeling at his feet. Josiah remembered he was dreaming but...this _was_ Ezra, wasn't it? His shoulders suddenly seemed as heavy as his mind was, weighed down with confusion. He saw his shirt and trousers, but he could _feel_ the burdening weight of his cassock and robes pulling him down.

He frowned at the chalice, a cold, solid weight in his hand, its liquid tipping with the angle of the cup. He tried to remember, but Ezra was looking up at him so solemnly, wearing such an imploring look of trust, of _want_. He found his lips moving silently in the ancient twists of ancient words, invoking the spirit to transform the blood-red wine to wine-red blood. An uneasy chill passed through him as he tipped the cup to Ezra's parted lips. A mouthful was swallowed with sinful grace, and as Josiah shakily replaced the cup on the altar, he saw a thin rivulet of the communion wine trace across Ezra's lower lip, settling in a tempting, tenuous drop.

"Drink of me?" asked Ezra, his voice pitched low and somehow dangerous. Even spoken while kneeling, the words rang of command.

Ezra rose smoothly to his feet, standing so close that Josiah could feel the heat radiating from his body. Those well-muscled arms slid around his middle, hands clasped against his lower back. Josiah lowered his head and captured Ezra's mouth in a slow, burning kiss, receiving the wine from his lips

Oil.

The wine tasted strangely bitter, smelling almost metallic, like blood. It felt _oily_. He tried to draw back, but Ezra held him fast with hands and tongue. The wine turned his stomach, turned his head, but Ezra's mouth was sweet and smoky as Chinese incense.

Josiah was forced back a step as Ezra pushed against him, those hands straying lower and lower. He stumbled into the altar, dimly heard the chalice hit the wooden floor, saw a flash of red as its sacred contents soaked a corner of the shroud. He was on his back, his legs bent over the altar's edge before he could even register what had happened. Had he felt the impact?

The thought had hardly won out for his attention when he suddenly found himself covered with Ezra's warm body. Something thick rushed through his veins as Ezra _squirmed_ on top of him, positioning himself until, sitting on his heels, he was straddling Josiah's lap.

"Do you want me, Josiah?"

A silver arrow of pleasure shot straight through him as Ezra rubbed their bodies together. He felt, rather than heard the low moan roll from his throat.

If he bit his lip, would he wake up? He mustn't, then.

Ezra stretched out above him, braced on hands and knees atop the altar, arching his back, languid and muscular like a sunning cougar. Warm breath on Josiah's cheek, a wet tongue tracing shivers down his neck, nuzzling almost.

"Do you want me?" A knowing, honey-rich drawl.

"Yes." Josiah grinned. "Lord, yes."

He reached up and grabbed Ezra by the shoulders, pulling him off-balance. Infused with some sudden laughing, unburdened excitement, he clasped Ezra to him in a joyful tangle of teeth and tongues and touch. Ezra's hands insinuated themselves deftly under his shirt with all the skill of his trade, stroking the skin whisper-lightly, then grasping, kneading, twisting.

Josiah thought he may have gasped, repeatedly, but couldn't be certain because he was too light-headed to remember. He could taste salt as he roughly kissed any inch of skin that met his lips, feeling unbearably warm and dizzy, as if he were falling into sunlight. Clothes were shed, or plain disappeared; it was a painful request of reality to pretend he wasn't dreaming, but Ezra's touch was sure and knowledgeable, his body so firm and alive under Josiah's hands.

Bare skin rubbed against bare skin, muscles tensing and rippling in a long, lean curve when certain spots were stroked just right. Josiah's grin never wavered as he watched Ezra moving above him, hair tousled, his smile sly and easy. He seemed to be teetering on the edge of genuine laughter, and his scent was heavy with clean sweat and musky sex. He looked fierce and wild, playful and seductive.

He looked absolutely beautiful.

Josiah took a sharp nip at his shoulder, letting his jaw tighten until he felt the tender flesh press against the blade. He chuckled at the offended yelp and following hiss that slipped from Ezra's mouth. His grin soon faltered at Ezra's mischievous quirk of an eyebrow.

Ezra pushed himself up and _back_, rocking experimentally. Josiah tried to stop the series of short, incoherent mutterings that were let loose every time Ezra's backside rubbed against him. Then...warm...slick, but with enough friction to create a delicious edge, he was inside of Ezra, taking him, being taken—didn't know, didn't care.

Sliding deeper, trying to lift his head only to find his neck arching, Josiah felt as if all the blood in his body were being pumped straight to his loins, his heart thumping overtime to compensate. Ezra braced himself on his shoulder, gripping tightly. Very firm, very real. Josiah wondered vaguely if he were having a heart attack, if you could die in dreams, and if they'd find him with a hell of a smile frozen on his face.

He let out an involuntary cry, thrusting upward as well as he could with so little leverage as Ezra bore down. For a split second they broke their driving rhythm, frozen, each feeling the pulse coursing through the other's body.

Thrust—warm—dizzy—and Josiah shattered, scraping through the tongue-biting pleasure of coming, like being dragged behind a galloping horse over a gravel road. An intense pleasure so good it hurt, or so painful it was pleasurable...

His fists clenched. He seized up, then relaxed, his stomach wet with Ezra's come, sliding...sliding out of Ezra, his cock still sticky with his own seed. Ezra collapsed on top of him, which would have knocked the breath out of him had he regained it yet.

Sated, tingling with sunset afterglow, Josiah cuddled close a sleepy, satisfied Ezra. He himself felt not a touch of fatigue once the fog had lifted from his mind, only calm as his heart rate steadied, his blood returning to its well-beaten paths.

Was it even possible to fall asleep in a dream? Would he find himself waking?

When he gave mind to it, he could smell the scent of cooling sex, saline and viscous. Still dreaming, as his body took renewed interest when Ezra rubbed a cheek against his chest.

"mmm..." a warm, satisfied sound inched out from the younger man.

"mmm..." Josiah agreed.

Ezra stretched then in earnest, a long rolling wave, then collapsed limply again in mock exhaustion. "I love you," he muttered.

Three simple words amidst a fortune of five-dollar nonsense. Josiah's stomach and heart floated joyfully, and then sunk. If he weren't dreaming, if it wouldn't hurt so much, he would have answered in kind.

"Josiah? You were going to take my confession?" Ezra asked suddenly, an urgent edge to his voice.

Confusion lapped at the edge of Josiah's mind. Hadn't he already—it had led them to the kiss and the blood and the—

"Josiah?" Ezra asked again, with subdued disquiet.

Apprehension stirred in him. He ran his fingers through Ezra's hair, which was soft and slightly damp. The absent-minded movement calmed him slightly, enough to whisper, "Tell me what you've done, Ezra."

The fear in his own voice worried him.

Ezra didn't move, but Josiah could feel every muscle in him tensing. A shudder passed through Ezra's body so strongly that it took a moment for Josiah to realize that it was not his own.

His voice barely recognizable with resignation, Ezra began to speak. "I killed a man..."

Hadn't they all? But Josiah couldn't interrupt, feeling the sanctity of the confessional between their naked bodies. He listened with rapt attention and a growing dread.

"I killed my father."

Honour thy father.

"I killed him with my bare hands."

Thou shalt not kill.

"I threw a punch, and he—he hit his _head_ on the corner of the altar."

In the house of my father...

"And I took him by the hair..."

Josiah stopped moving his hand through Ezra's hair, his fingers still twined around the soft strands.

"And I..._beat_ his head against the altar...over..."

No. Ezra hadn't done that.

"...and over..."

Had he?

"And I felt no remorse...because he killed my sister."

An eye for an eye.

"My beautiful little sister, Hannah."

Hannah.

"She had the devil in her. And Father beat it out of her..."

Hannah with her wild eyes...

"And he kept beating until the spirit was out of her too..."

Hannah with her empty eyes.

"And so I beat the life out of him."

Father, with his dead eyes, filmed over rose with blood.

"...and in the end, she was dead on the inside...and no matter what I did, I couldn't bring her back."

And so Jesus did raise his cousin Lazarus...

"She was so pale from being locked away..."

Her skin was white as leprosy...

"And she was just like a frightened little girl, an idiot. She didn't know me. She wasn't my sweet little Hannah—she wasn't the painted Jezebel my father saw..."

She was just a husk.

"She was just a husk."

Her whole life wasted because of...

"Her whole life was wasted because of..."

You.

"...my father."

You.

"You." Josiah heard himself whisper, anger welling up in him with a chill so cold it burned. "You."

His grip on Ezra's hair tightened enough to make Ezra inhale sharply. It didn't stop him.

"Why didn't you protect her?" he asked, his anger washing away the rationale that none of this was right, none of this was _real_.

"I...I had to protect myself. I had to get away from him. I never thought he would—"

"You knew. You _knew_. You just wanted to save your own skin."

He tightened his fist.

"No, I—"

"_Stop making excuses!_"

And then he was on his feet, holding Ezra by the hair, swinging his fist...and it felt so good, so_satisfying_ when he felt Ezra's—his father's, his own—lying mouth split warm and bloody under the blow.

"Stop making excuses!" he heard himself shouting. "You should have been there for her! You were her brother, you should have protected her!"

He almost winced at the sickening crack that echoed obscenely throughout the church, a sound he'd only heard once before. His father's—_Ezra's_, his eyes insisted—head had struck the corner of the altar where the communion wine had spilt. Vivid red on the white shroud, except it wasn't wine leaking out from the body's ear.

He couldn't let go.

He kept on smashing, over and over, limbs trembling. He couldn't stop. His arms, his chest, his whole body was coiled impossibly tight with sweet rage. His mind recoiled at the blood, the silvery-clear liquid that leaked from places never intended to meet the air. He kept on smashing until the cold tension ran from arms, until his hands were wet.

He stopped.

"You should have been there." He felt his throat choke. "You should have."

And he saw that it was Ezra there, lying dead. Ezra. His body was clothed again in his fancy suit as if to spare him a final indignity. As if it helped. He was crumpled on the floor, his limbs slack, his head bowed forward, away from the red and silver trail of blood and skin and hair that soaked through the linen shroud.

Oh God. He was still dreaming, wasn't he? Then why couldn't he wake up?

"Wake me up."

He was freezing; his hands were mottled, and he could smell the blood. What if he wasn't dreaming? He felt light-headed and realized that his breath was coming in short, harsh pants. What if it was Ezra's blood on his hands, warm and sticky? His fists were still clenched, nails digging into his palms. Why wasn't he waking up?

He fell to his knees inches away from Ezra's body. He wanted to gather Ezra to him, feel that he was still warm, to kiss him and make it all better. He wished those blank eyes would close.

Ezra would be angry, Josiah thought wildly, angry at the blood soaking into his fine clothes. Ezra would be embarrassed at being seen with his hair all tangled and matted. Josiah's breath was ragged now, in, out, and there was another sound...

Laughter.

Head wound gaping, blood running from his eyes, nose, mouth, ears, Ezra was laughing at him.

"Whoo, Jo-siah!" Ezra exclaimed. "You should have seen the look on your face!" The voice was strange, mocking, but inarguably coming from Ezra's blood-soaked mouth.

Josiah gaped.

Ezra got to his feet quite steadily for a dead man. He smiled down at Josiah, and then neatly spat a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.

"What, no kiss for me, Preacher?"

Realization dawned. If he wasn't dreaming, than he surely was in Hell. A righteous anger rose in him, the fervor masking a core of pure terror.

"Get thee behind me, Satan," he ordered shakily.

He blinked and Ezra was once again whole, immaculate, carrying not a trace of the injury that Josiah's own hands had wrought upon him. It didn't make him any less disturbing to Josiah's eyes.

The apparition wearing Ezra's skin smirked an ugly smirk. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He made a ghastly parody of blowing a kiss.

A thousand prayers lay on Josiah's tongue, a hundred incantations his father had chanted over those seized by the dark one, over him and his sister. A thousand prayers, and all he could ask was, "Who the hell are you?"

_It_ laughed like broken metal across a slate.

"You mean I don't get to be Ezra anymore? Oh, that's right. You _killed_ him." The demon frowned in mock confusion. "Now why did you go and do something like that?"

Why had he...? Josiah's head spun. He remembered he'd once dreamed he'd killed Ezra. Dreaming. Was he drunk? He felt like it, except without the pleasantly numb warmth in his limbs.

"I...I'm not sure," he admitted.

Ezra eyes looked puzzled.

"But Ezra wasn't a bad boy, was he? He was just a little wild...misguided," he prompted.

Josiah frowned, then nodded hesitantly. Ezra wasn't bad. Ezra had a good heart; he just needed the right encouragement to mend old habits. This he was certain of.

"Just like Hannah?" Ezra mouth asked innocently.

Hannah. Yes, Ezra's sis—no, _Josiah's_ sister. Yes, Ezra was like Hannah.

"So Ezra didn't deserve to die, did he?"

No, he—

"But now he's dead, just like Hannah."

Ezra. Hannah. Ezra and Hannah. Ezra had left Hannah with Father, he killed her. Josiah said as much, his voice ringing with desperation.

Ezra shook his head sadly. "No, Josiah. I'm afraid _you_ killed Hannah. You killed her by leaving her alone with your father. You killed your father...what, for some misguided penance...? Or just because you finally had reason to pay him back for all those years of misery. And Ezra...a crime of passion? You fucked him, and you killed him before your come had time to dry. Tell me, Preacher, which did you enjoy more, slamming your cock into his ass, or slamming his head into the wood? Weren't they both just so _satisfying_?"

That wasn't Ezra, he kept telling himself. He was dreaming. This wasn't real.

Warmth. Josiah flinched as the sadistic demon with Ezra's face settled beside him. He hated himself for leaning into the soft touch that traced along his cheek.

"Poor, poor, Josiah. So confused," it sighed. "Oh, the sins we commit in the houses of our fathers."

Why wouldn't someone wake him up? Was this what death was, one endless nightmare from which there was no escape? Would it not end until his bones turned to dust? He quivered.

The demon chuckled. "Oh, I _am_ sorry. I was just funnin' you. Don't give me that look. I just worry about you, Jo-siah," it singsonged.

I just worry about you. I didn't mean to hit you so hard, I just worry about you, son. I'm sorry you had to stay in the cellar for two days this time, but I just worry about you. I worry because I care.

"Oh, you're no fun anymore. You were a whole lot more interesting before," it drawled, rubbing its hand down Josiah's chest.

A horrible chill spread over Josiah's skin through his shirt, as if his skin were turning to scales.

He began to mutter rapidly under his breath, "Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou—"

"Oh no. I am so frightened. This is I, disintegrating at your holy words," the demon said dryly.

"...and blessed is the fruit of thy womb..."

"Poor guilty boy. It must be so hard to be in love when everything you care about turns to death."

"...pray for us sinners..."

"How do you think your young gambler will meet his end? Will you fuck him and break him? Or break him _then_ fuck him while his body turns cold?" the demon asked, a little testily.

"...and in the hour of our death..."

"Because I _will_ be seeing him soon."

Josiah wanted nothing more than to cut out the demon's lying tongue, but he couldn't move away from the touch, couldn't bear to see blood spilling from Ezra's face again.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..."

Sudden fire—pain—hands of iron. The demon was grasping Josiah's face between his hands, eyes burning like lantern light. Behind him, shadows gathered densely, like large black wings unfolding, like death.

Like crows.

"Listen here, Preacher Man." A rancid hiss of smoke and brimstone hit Josiah's face. "Playing the martyr doesn't suit you, and neither does playing the serpent. You watch your pretty boy in the sunshine and think such lovely dark thoughts, blaming them on my brothers. We both may have sinned in the houses of our fathers, but don't think yourself so important. You are vermin, nothing more. Your kiss may be sickness, but mine is death."

And then their mouths were together in the play-act of a kiss. Oily, putrid—Josiah drank of him. Dizzy, dizzy. He thought he heard a whisper:

"I _am_ the serpent."

Blood wine filled his mouth until he couldn't breathe, his body shaking in the fits of death.

He winced as he landed hard on the floor of his church, his eyes shut tight against the glare sunlight...sunlight. Sunlight, pure and bright, filtering into his church, his church of the colorful stain glass and simple altar. He was awake. He swallowed in relief, then gagged. A rancid taste filled his mouth, and he spat into his palm.

Red.

Sitting back clumsily on the pew from which he'd tumbled, wiping his hand on his pants, he tried very hard to convince himself he'd bitten his tongue in the middle of a nightmare. He headed quickly outside into the light.

* * *

Three days. The time Christ took to rise from his tomb. Three days, and Josiah lets himself remember, examine. They had been days of rising early, retiring late, days of laughing halfheartedly and avoiding Ezra's exclusive company. It had been three days of drinking just little enough to stay conscious. Yet no matter how many sips passed his lips, it didn't replace the lingering taste of snakebite.

He watches Ezra now through liquor-hazed eyes, and he bides his time, waiting to dream again of plague and serpents, of that moment of bliss amidst the horror.

Ezra is sitting beside him, but he might as well be miles away. And wasn't the serpent's kiss sweet, if only for a moment.


End file.
